Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Follow the Money

“J
ust heard from the FBI,” reported Chief Jim Purdue, sticking his head into the mayor’s office. Mark Tidemore was hiding away from all the raucous revelers downstairs. Screams and laughter could be heard over a rendition of “Monster Mash.” The noise was deafening.

“The FBI?”

“Seems some of that stolen savings and loan money turned up here in Caruthers Corners today.”

“No kidding?” said Mark the Shark. As an attorney, he knew what that meant. How could Peewee Hickensmith and Moose Johansson be guilty if someone else was spreading the stolen money around town?

“Barnabas Soltairé has already served a writ of
habeas corpus
. Those two crooks will likely be out in time to still go trick-or-treating.”

“Where did the money turn up?”

“Down the street at the Dollar General of all places. The invisible markings showed up when they deposited the receipts at the end of the day. The bank wands everything as a matter of routine.”

“That couldn’t have been more than an hour or two ago.” He glanced at his wristwatch. 8:32 p.m. The Halloween Festival had been going on three hours now.

“The Feebies work fast. I just got the call a few minutes ago. I was in the middle of breaking up a fistfight.”

“A fight?”

“Nothing big. Pete Hitzer took over. Two football jocks having a dispute over a girl.”

“Big surprise in that.”

“Otherwise, the Festival has been going pretty smoothly. The haunted house is a big hit. Lines stretching around the atrium.”

“Do the Dollar General clerks have any idea who passed the money?”

“FBI says not. Today was a busy day, selling last-minute Halloween costumes and trick-or-treat candy. Obviously it was a cash transaction. No records.”

“But there’s no question it took place today?”

“No question,” nodded the high school. “And Hickensmith and Johansson have been locked up all week.”

“Do you think they had an accomplice? Someone who thinks the money belongs to him, now that his partners have been nabbed?”

“Possibly. But if I were the third man in a deal like that, I’d skip the state with my suitcase of cash before those two yahoos rolled over on me. I wouldn’t hang around here shopping at the Dollar General.”

“I see what you mean. But maybe he’s as dimwitted as his partners.”

“Don’t sell those boys short. They did pull off a major heist. Two hundred thou is a darn good haul. The average take in a bank robbery is only $4,330.”

“Point taken. But what other explanation could there be?”

A small voice spoke up. “Maybe somebody found the money where they hid it in the basement of Beasley Mansion,” suggested Aggie. She’d been using the mayor’s private restroom and had overheard most of the conversation.

“Somebody found it –?” Chief Purdue repeated, trying on the idea.

“But who?” said Mark Tidemore, eying his daughter. He didn’t approve of her sneaking around, spying on people. Those Quilters Clubbers took this detective business too far.

“Maybe it was that ghost,” shrugged Aggie, adjusting the apron on her Alice in Wonderland costume. The Velcro kept coming loose, causing one of the straps to slip off her thin shoulder. But what could you expect for $19.95 from the Dollar General?

“Ghost?” chuckled Chief Purdue. “Let’s not go there again.”

“Maybe not a real ghost,” conceded the mayor’s daughter. “But Uncle Freddie saw a face in that upstairs window. And you found that somebody had been staying in the front bedroom, eating all those candy bars. Dollar General’s the best place to buy candy in all the town. Everybody knows that, real ghost or not.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Lucius Plancus was standing on the sidewalk having a smoke, while the Halloween Festival raged on inside the Town Hall. He’d been cursing his luck, assigned to cover a high school party when bigger stories loomed just outside his grasp. There had to be graft involved in that rumored housing project. Something more to that S&L robbery. Maybe a scandal attached to the mayor and his pretty new secretary. Or corruption in the Zoning department.

Any of those would be headline news. But a bunch of high school kids getting drunk on spiked punch, that was a non-starter. Didn’t that stupid
WZUR
station manager have any kind of nose for news?

As the Jolly Red Giant lit up his second cigarette, he surveyed the families trolling the houses that bordered the town square, kids with trick-or-treat bags in hand, watchful parents trailing along behind. Ozzie and Harriet, he thought disdainfully. Clusters of people in colorful costumes milled in the park. That’s what made him notice Barnabas Soltairé, that big-time lawyer, standing near the Old Settlers Well, looking out of place dressed in a slickly tailored $2,000 silk suit. What was he doing here?

The big carrot-top reporter shambled across the street, waving to get the lawyer’s attention. “Hey, Mr. Soltairé, it’s me – Lucius,” he called, but the noise from the Town Hall drowned him out.

He was within yards of Soltairé before the mob lawyer noticed him, although how one could miss a 300-pound redhead in a bright yellow windbreaker is a little hard to understand. “Hi ya,” he greeted the reporter, extending a hand. “Where’s your costume? This is a Halloween party.”

“Where’s yours?” responded Lucius Plancus, perhaps a tad cheeky given the “juice” of the slick barrister he was addressing.

“I’m in costume,” winked Barnabas Soltairé. “I’m disguised as an honest, tax-paying citizen.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“I just need to fool juries.”

“Where are your clients? I heard Hickensmith and Johansson were going to get sprung tonight.”

Soltairé shrugged, offering an apologetic little smile that caused the ends of his pencil-mustache to curve upward. “Didn’t happen.”

“Oh, why not?” Plancus was reaching for the
RECORD
button on his hand-held Sony digital recorder.

“Two reasons: First one, they don’t have a lawyer to file a writ of
habeas corpus
.”

“Why not? I thought you were their attorney of record…”

“No more. Those two doofuses don’t have the money to pay my fees. The boys robbed that savings and loan, all right. But they let somebody steal the two hundred grand from them. They’re broke.”

“And the second reason?”

“Peewee’s sister rolled over on him, and he rolled over on Moose. The Feebies aren’t going to turn them loose now that they have a witness who corroborates that Tutley woman’s story.”

“Why would Mama Leone do that? I thought she adored her baby brother.”

“Mama Leone? You mean Myrtle Hickensmith? She’s no more Italian than you are.”

“Matter of fact, I am second-generation Italian. I was named after Lucius Munatius Plancus, a Roman senator circa 42 BC.”

“A redheaded wop? Now I’ve seen everything.”

“Well, my mother was Irish. But that’s not the point.”

“No, the point is Myrtle overheard the boys talking and decided to do the right thing by turn them in. Her civic responsibility.”

“You believe that?”

“Not really. I expect she’s still mad over him pushing her off a tricycle when she was nine. But who’s to say?”

“So if Hickensmith and Johansson are still in jail, what are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to meet a new client, a guy who says he’s going to need a lawyer before this Halloween party’s over.”

“I didn’t know you met clients in parks.”

“Don’t usually, but this guy sent fifty grand in twenty dollar bills along with his request for the meeting. I can make exceptions with that kind of introduction.”

Plancus’s antennae went up. There had to be a story here. “Who is this guy that’s going to need a lawyer?”

“Couldn’t tell you even if I knew. Client privilege and all that. But truth is, he didn’t say. Just said to look for a guy dressed as The Phantom of the Opera.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Döpplegangers

S
tanley Caruthers mingled with the partiers at the Halloween Festival. No one recognized him underneath the Phantom of the Opera getup. Perfect-o! He wanted to look around, see all the unsuspecting people. Little did they know there were two firebombs planted in the building. But he’d be long gone before the bombs went off precisely at 10 p.m. The next day he’d return to claim his rightful place in town society, helping to restore order in the aftermath of a disaster.

As Stanley strutted across the atrium, he came face-to-face with a mirror image of himself, another Phantom of the Opera. Same plumed hat, same white plastic mask, same $39.95 spent at Dollar General. Somehow it had never occurred to him that another person might come as Phantom of the Opera.

He studied his döppleganger the way two dogs of the same breed might sniff at each other. “Why are you wearing that costume,” he demanded. “I am the one true Phantom.”

Freddie Madison cocked his head to inspect this strange twin challenging his right to be so-dressed. “For forty bucks, pal, anybody can be The Phantom of the Opera,” he retorted. The nerve of this guy!

“But you have no right.”

“More right than anybody in this room,” said Freddie. “There’s more to me than meets the eye.”

“Whatta you mean?”

Freddie puffed out his chest. “Like The Phantom I hide my hideous visage behind this mask,” he said with exaggerated Shakespearean aplomb. “What claim do you have?”

“I am The Phantom in spirit, a recluse who secrets himself away from others.”

The guy was starting to bug Freddie. “Tell you what, on the count of three we’ll both remove our mask and see who best fits the role.”

Stanley squared off against his nemesis, certain that his own harrowing personality would shine forth. “All right,” he said. “One … Two … three…”

“Three,” Freddie echoed.

With that, both Phantoms pulled away their masks. Freddie’s action unveiled the distorted face beneath, a real-life monster. Stanley snatched away his own mask, revealing his gaunt face and untrustworthy eyes. “Behold!” he said loud enough to attract a few stares.

But it was Freddie’s scarred face that won out. Upon seeing it, the One True Phantom stepped back, an involuntary reaction that he would later view as a sign of weakness. “Yikes!” he said. “Is that makeup?”

“Told you I was the real deal,” laughed Freddie. “This face doesn’t come off.”

“You’re downright scary,” admitted the man who was planning to kill dozens of the people around him tonight.

Freddie blinked, suddenly recognizing his adversary. “Stinky?” he said. “Is that you?”

“Hey, how do you know me?”

“We went to school together,” said Freddie.

“No, I would remember a face like that.”

“This came later, in a fire. I’m Freddie Madison.”

Stanley Caruthers gawked. “You were on the football team. But you didn’t look like a burnt marshmallow.”

“Told you, that came later. I was a fireman in Atlanta. What have you been doing?”

“Planning.”

“Planning what?”

“That’s my secret,” he giggled.

“Say, didn’t I see you down near Pitsville yesterday? Were you setting off explosives at the quarry?”

“So what if I was. I had to test it.”

“Test what – a bomb?”

“That’s part of my plan,” babbled Stanley. “I’m going to reclaim the town for the Caruthers name. I’ll become mayor once that stupid Tidemore guy is dead.”

“Mark Tidemore is married to my sister,” said Freddie. “What do you mean ‘once he’s dead’?” He reached out to grab Stinky by his scrawny neck, but the self-proclaimed Phantom turned and ran, the hem of his cape sliding through Freddie’s fingers like a lost dream.

≈ ≈ ≈

“Stinky Caruthers – he’s here?” exclaimed Chief Purdue. “That little weasel has a lot of nerve. After what his uncle did to this town.”

“Saw him with my own eyes,” nodded Freddie.

“And you’re saying he threatened me?” repeated Mark Tidemore.

“In so many words.” Freddie had gone straight up to the mayor’s office to report his strange encounter. “Also I saw him yesterday, down near Pitsville. I think he was testing a bomb. If you don’t believe me, ask Beau Madison and Edgar Ridenour. They saw the explosion too.”

“You think he’s going to blow me up?” asked Mark. He didn’t like the sound of this.

“Who knows? But he looked pretty crazy to me.”

“All the Caruthers are crazy,” said the police chief. “His Uncle Henry turned out to be a criminal psychopath.”

“Well, go arrest him,” said the mayor.

“Stinky? For what?”

“For being crazy. I don’t like some nut job running around threatening to blow me up.”

“He wasn’t that specific,” admitted Freddie.”

“What the heck,” shrugged the police chief. “I’ll hold him overnight. Is he still downstairs?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, then, what did he look like?”

“Just like me.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Stanley Caruthers was not to be found. Jim Purdue and his deputies swept the Town Hall, but there was no Phantom of the Opera among the partiers. Pete Hitzer almost arrested Freddie before he saw his scarred face.

“You sure it was Stinky?” asked Mark Tidemore. He’d never liked that little worm. Back in high school he’d been a whiny jerk. He wasn’t even a good waterboy.

“No question. We talked. He took off his mask.”

“Well, I’ve put out an APB on him,” said Chief Purdue. “All three of my deputies are looking for him. We’ll never make a charge of threatening the mayor stick, but why take any chances.”

“I’m gonna get back to the party,” said Freddie. “I promised to take Aggie through the haunted house.”

“She’s been looking forward to that all week,” said her father.

“Me too,” Freddie admitted. “Donna Ann’s a little young for that. But Aggie’s brave. She even went trick-or-treating at the house next door to the Beasley Mansion tonight.”

“Beasley Arms,” Mark corrected him.

“Beasley Gardens,” responded Freddie.

“Oh, right.” Mark knew when to give in. A $200-million housing development was more important than what you might call it. Bobby Ray Purdue always stayed out of the limelight. That meant the mayor’s office would get all the credit. Yes, he liked that.

≈ ≈ ≈

Freddie found Aggie eating a caramel-coated apple on a stick near the fortune-telling booth. The planning committee had chipped in to hire Madam Blatvia for the occasion. “There you are,” he said to his favorite niece. “Ready to go through the haunted house?”

“You bet,” she said, tossing the half-eaten apple into a nearby trash receptacle. In her costume, she looked like an Alice late for a very important date. “We’d better hurry. It’s almost time for the cosplay contest. I don’t want to miss a chance to win that motor scooter.”

“Silly girl, you’re too young for a driver’s license.”

“I can store it in Grammy’s garage until I get my license. I’ll be eligible for a learner’s permit in two and a half more years.”

“You’re growing up fast, Miss Agnes Tidemore.”

“I’ll let you ride on my motor scooter if I win it,” she said.

The line to the haunted house had shortened considerably by this time of night. But screams and moans could still be heard coming from inside. The recording, no doubt.

“My treat, kiddo,” said Freddie, forking over four bucks to a pimply-faced kid at the entrance.

“Thanks, Uncle Freddie.”

“The sign says to abandon all hope,” he teasingly cautioned.

“I never give up hope,” she replied primly. “Let go inside.”

The darkened labyrinth took them first past a fan blowing cold air, a chilling breeze to set the mood. Groans and grunts were piped in via an overhead speaker. Next came a zombie popping up from nowhere, revealed in what looked like a flash of lightning. Then came the net-like spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling and phosphorescent black widows the size of dinner plates. Aggie screamed time and again.

As they came to the station where a cloth-wrapped mummy – that was Buddy Switzer, the star quarterback – lumbered from an alcove, arms outstretched, Aggie whispered to her uncle, “I smell something funny.”

“Funny?”

“Like a service station.”

“You mean gasoline?”

“Yeah, gasoline.”

Freddie froze in his tracks. Sniffing the air, he picked up the scent, that smell he’d encountered at the quarry. What had Stinky Caruthers said about testing a bomb … and the mayor being dead?

“Good gravy,” he said. “That’s the smell of napalm.”